Mello Versus Control
by Dust in the Light-Crisi
Summary: A young boy with a chip on his shoulder fights his lot in life and to redeem his past wrongs; the greatest ended his best friend's chance for true happiness. Mello's story told via flashbacks No Yaoi unless you see it that way or other cheesy romances R&R
1. Cigars

**This particular piece is my greatest work beyond all doubt, about a 40 page story thus far. I've worked my ass off on it and ****am extremely proud of it. It's an emotionally-driven new look into who Mello might have been and written in a sort of oneshotish styling.  
><strong>

**We don't get much information on the Wammy kids. As much as we love them, we don't know very much more than their outward appearances and personalities. ****Yet paradoxically they're so ridiculously developed and complex I find myself wondering just how it is they got to becoming the characters we love today. **

**This was how Mello Versus Control was born. Mello's not even my favorite Wammy character, yet something drew me into writing for him and before I knew it I had a pretty little cast of characters built around it. I tried to be realistic about the problems he encounters and expound on his flaws as well as his good traits. If you ever see a blatant mistake, feel free to point it out.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Death Note, I would not be on _Fan_fiction. And if I owned Death Note I wouldn't be able to resist giving the Wammy Kids backstories. Don't own, don't sue, thank you.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: Cigars<strong>

His hands fumble over the lighter, striking the roller till it spouts an orange tongue of flame. The infant inferno wobbles to some unseen wind and he feels little pricks dance across his back. He knows what's coming…he always knew what he was getting himself into. He read the warning labels…he just chose to ignore them. No, maybe that's not quite right. He just doesn't care enough…doesn't have enough self preservation in his bones. He never did.

The TV near by continues to glow; the only other source of light in the cab of the truck as Mello presses the cigar to his lips. He recoils a little at the foul taste(smoking had never been his cup of tea), his mind chides him for the damage the deathstick is about to do to his lungs. But then, another part of him whispers, he won't be using those lungs too much longer. This realization is met with a chilling sensation…a flood of liquid nitrogen pumping through his arteries.

The news anchor continues her rambling, her voice dancing with an unusually excited tone barely held back by her solemn words. Mello's not fooled by her stoic face or stiff, cardboard mannerisms. Not only does she not care that Takada is missing, she's somewhat happy in a way. Happy to have something exciting to talk about. She thinks this is great fun, like some cheep action silver screen you can see for eight bucks at the movies. Complete with fiery explosions. The kidnapping of a powerful, global figure. The manhunt the whole world is currently undergoing to find her and the perp. An exciting police chase ending with the shooting of an unarmed teenager. Letting his blood make rivers while the real culprit…Mello himself…remains at large.

But this is not a game. It's not some cheap movie flick. Mello knows that better than anyone. This woman's an idiot. She just announced a kid…a good kid is dead and she's happy? He might have struck her across the face if he wasn't above hitting women and if he was present.

The words hummed in his head once again, setting his insides ablaze and his stomach dropping through the floor of the truck. Matt is dead. He hadn't thought it was possible…no more than he'd thought it was possible for L to die. He'd mentally pegged himself and his inner circle as invincible. The people who actually mattered to him were permanently bulletproof. Yet they both were gone now…and he'd be soon joining them. He drew in a long draught of smoke, the acrid gas scorching down his gullet.

He didn't mean for any of this to happen. Well, maybe not ANY of it. He knew his place…knew his purpose. But he'd never wanted this. He'd never wanted Matt to pay for the price on his head. When he hopped on his bike earlier that day, he'd known his own fate was sealed. No matter how many times he promised Matt that he'd come back…that they would both sit down and have a victory cigar together, he had no intention of coming back. He prayed Matt would understand why he had to do this…why he had to redeem himself.

But…none of that mattered now. He was smoking alone, the scar on his face throbbing the way it had when he first got it. The charred skin sent sharp spikes of pain down his nerves. A marker of shame…of all the horrible things he'd done. He shakes his head, blond tuffs of hair speckling his vision.

He turned his gaze skyward. He hadn't long been in touch with heaven and hell and all that jazz. It was actually Matt's firm faith that had began to change how Mello saw Christianity as well…and it was at Matt's insistence that Mello wore a rosary. Matt had always said it would protect him from evil…Mello didn't buy that and he only wore the bloody thing to shut his friend up. Of course that hadn't completely shut him up. It had become almost a game for him…hiding rosaries and crosses randomly through out Mello's stuff. He even chained one to Mello's favorite gun, taking the time to weld it to the base so Mello couldn't remove it. That bastard. That stupid, stupid…sweet bastard. Mello wiped his eyes, suddenly feeling as though a damn wasp had stung them both. Really…that was what it was. Crying? Who was crying? Certainly not him. He wasn't crying he was just…hyperallergenic to bee stings.

Mello would never admit it, but it had the desired effect. For while Mello didn't believe in some bearded-all-seeing-god spying on him while he showered and writing his name down on the Naughty list like some overinflated Santa, the rosary made him feel good for a very different reason. It was an omnipresent reminder that someone actually gave a shit about him. That he had a best friend who actually cared…a reason to make sure he got out of scrapes like the one he just landed himself in. Everything else in his life lasted no longer than an igloo in the Sahara, shifting as the sands on a beach did as the tides beat them to a pulp. But not Matt. Matt was always there. Always annoying him and pestering him.

For probably the first and last time in his life, Mello prayed he was wrong. He prayed that he was stupid and foolish. That there really was something else. Something greater. He didn't care what…some creepy perverted god studying him on a slab with a glorified magnifying glass or even the glorious one whose far too perfect for such an imperfect word that is preached in Sunday school. Just someone, anyone, up there who could give Matt the peace he deserves. Mello didn't care what happened to him…he knew he was a bad guy. But he wanted to believe there was someplace better. Some place his best friend could be happy. Happier than he'd been in this cold world that had been bending him over backwards since he was a preteen. He and Matt had been through Hell together and he still felt responsible for every bloody second of it. He dragged everyone in his life into the inferno…that or they dragged him.

* * *

><p><strong>Please don't ask if this is going to be yaoi. I have absolutely nothing against it but I'm not going out of my way to write it. There won't be any lasting couplings, a<strong>**lthough there will be brief flashes of romances Death Note style. (In other words messed up)**

**This, like Death Note in general, has mature content. We all know Mello has a mouth on him, so this should not surprise you, but there will be some riskier moments in the story as well and it has generally darker ideals.**

**Last thing. When I write, I tend to make a lot of connections to music. Music drives my words like nothing else. MVC, as I call it, is no exception. This particular chapter I have no specific songs to attach to, just a large collection of befitting ones but none that really stand out, but I'll make a list of songs for those that want them at the beginning of every chapter. However, if I were to name a couple songs that befit the story as a whole, I would say Kings and Queens by 30 Seconds to Mars, Points of Authority by Linkin Park, Flowers for a Ghost by Thriving Ivory, Fin by Amberlin and Inside Out by Eve6. Very different songs all and covering the facets of the storyline to come.**

**This will be the longest Author Note. Promise.  
><strong>

**I think that pretty much covers everything you need to know. On a lighter note, my reason for posting today and not before or after now, Happy Birthday Mihael "Mello" "Mirror" Keheel! I can't believe I've a****ctually gotten use to calling him Mihael...What the hell is wrong with me?**

**~Crisi**

Review this Chapter Report Possible Abuse Add Story to Favorites Add Story to Story Alert Add Author to Favorites Add Author to Author Alert Add Story to Community 1. Cigars2. Strained

Return to Top


	2. Strained

**Disclaimer: When Death Note was first published I was 11. Unless you think a child could write such an amazing story or that I'm in line for inheriting the rights(I wish)** **I don't own Death Note.**

**Mello's childhood: Death to My Hometown by Logh**

**Mello and his father: Points of Authority by Linkin Park**

**Mello's father and mother: Love the Way You Lie part 2 by Rihanna**

**The Beach scene: Philosophy of a Knife by To Destroy a City**

** Mello's father's death:** Give by **Not to Reason Why ****  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Strained<strong>

He's always strove for Control. The very word had taken on a capitol C in his head a long time ago, back to the days when he hadn't had any to speak of. When his life seemed to be a court order and the decisions of adults who were supposed to be smarter than him.

He thinks that maybe that their "knowledge" is a farce or at least that he's far smarter than they are.

Perhaps it's a bit bigheaded to say. It's difficult not to get an inflated ego if you grow up knowing your special…better…smarter than the average kid milling about the city streets on the prowl for drugs, sex, and parties. Hell, smarter than some of the teachers with plastic smiles parading around drab school halls. Even as a kid, Mello was convinced he was above them. Above all that. Despite his parents and their scrape-the-bucket poverty throughout his childhood, he proudly knew where his strengths were. He knew he was smart and he wouldn't let anyone else tell him otherwise. In that area of life he was always confident and self-assured, pompously intent on holding his head high and prancing about as the prince of the ghettos. But he was still a kid…albeit a smart one. He still had lessons he needed to learn…ones he could not easily comprehend. Things you couldn't glean from a stuffy classroom, a pixilated old Mac book or tattered encyclopedia. Maybe the adults were right after all; a notion he would soundly refuse to give any credibility to but a valid argument nonetheless. He might have been too young to make choices back then. Back in the days when he was Mihael Keehl, anyways. Or heck maybe he was never really allotted to mature into a position where he should be allowed to posses any real Control over his life.

Still, he had to wonder if one could even vaguely call his parents "wise." His father, God-may-his-soul-rest-in-Hell, was a bastard. A blithering moronic prick who was as cruel as he was ugly. And his mother was an honest-to-god submissive, clingy whore…she hadn't even been certain who Mihael's real father was. God, she was a masochistic idiot.

It's wrong to speak of the dead like that. And one should have much more respect for his parents, but he can't be bothered to care. It was all true. Perhaps if they had actually BEEN parents he might hold a smidgen of respect for them. As it stands, he prefers to forget. He'd rather keep his roots in the ground where no one can see them and gawk at how twisted and folly they really were. There's a certain power in ignorance after all. The unknown was a most welcome ally in Mihael's life.

When his mother found out she was pregnant with him, she glued herself to his father, clinging to his side like the vulnerable little cunt she was. He stayed with her partly because she was pretty and partly because he knew he could manipulate her…drag her through the mud…slice her open both physically and emotionally and she would still come back smiling and practically wagging her tail like a dog too stupid for its own good.

Frankly, he's lucky he didn't end up disfigured or mentally handicapped, much less blessed with such a high mental capacity. He must have been a fluke; a twist in their genes that's very, very recessive. She drank and smoked while pregnant with him, however mildly in comparison to her vices later in her life. Along with the occasional limb-breaking session where his father beat her into a drooling crying mess, which was also lesser back then. And when she finally had a baby on her hip, she treated him more like a novelty doll than her flesh-blood-and-bone son. She was like a child and he was her favorite doll that she insisted on toting around everywhere, even through the muck his father pulled her through.

Ironically, despite this, it was probably his father that more or less kept him breathing until he was old enough to hold a Sippy cup in his own two hands. He had this unexpected level of paternal instinct and a surprisingly high tolerance level early on. He was the one who fed and washed and carried Mihael. Who hushed him when he cried and comforted him when he hurt and helped him learn how to use those chubby little clubs of meat called legs. Only once Mihael was old enough to somewhat care for himself did his father succumb to the bottle, becoming a shade of the man who taught Mihael his first word (which was "me" ironically) and taught him how to sit on the "big boy potty" without falling in for an unexpected and smelly swim.

Of course Mello knows none of this and even if he did, his attitudes toward his elder would not change in the least. He held no sympathy for a murderer.

As it stands, Mello can't in his living memory recall a time when it was even vaguely possible to call his childhood happy. He'd been denied a nuclear family and witnessing his parents' extremely dysfunctional relationship put him off the idea of ever falling in love. If only to avoid the memories of a life he didn't want.

Neither were faithful to one another and neither behaved in a way that even vaguely resembled how parents should behave. In his pre-grade school years they barely acknowledged that they had a son unless they wanted something from him. Sure they had a few things around the house for him, like his sippy cup he dubbed "Dippy" (which became his best friend as well because his parents never bought him anything else to play with), but for the most part Mihael had to strike off on his own.

He made his own fun by spending his time alone trying to learn all he could about the world around him and devising ways to trick his parents into acting like they gave a damn about him. He even once spent a night camped out in a smelly alleyway a few blocks from his house just to see if his parents would notice (they hadn't…it was a terrible disappointment and the first time Mihael literally felt his heartbreak). But a four-year-old sleeping outside using a newspaper for a blanket didn't fail to escape the notice of the local police however and they were not amused. When he was returned to his home, his parents were instructed that child services would take him away if the incident ever happened again, which Mihael hadn't wanted at that age. He was still in the phase where no matter how awful his parents were, he wanted them to love him so he never pulled that particular stunt again. By the time this thirst for affection had waned into an acknowledgement of negligence, Mihael had entirely forgotten the occasion.

His mother would disappear for long periods of time…her only act of rebellion. She clearly knew on some level just how horrible her husband really was. Yet every time she'd leave, she left her son to rot at home with his abrasive father. He would take out his anger on Mihael on occasion, when he got drunk and mean enough, but it never got physical. He just liked to yell a lot. He got close to smacking Mihael across the cheek once or twice, but he always hesitated. It was the only sliver of decency he had in his body not to blacken Mihael. Or perhaps it was cowardice that drove him to be the way he was. Fear of being reprimanded somehow with divine retribution.

His father hated the periods where his mother was gone. She'd always show up again, often with unexplained bruises or stitches marring her flesh. And then they would fight, clashing thunderously within the walls of their two-bedroom apartment while Mihael hid beneath whatever cover he could find. He'd once been nailed with a plate during one such fight on accident and had to get seven stitches, so he'd learned to duck and cover. The police often had to be called to interfere. It was the only way to quiet the calamity. And of course, the entire complex of apartments would be absolutely reeling in the days afterwards, gossiping and sneering at the Keehls' behind their backs. Even in the collection of dismal pads, they were a special brand of white trash. People who were at the bottom of the heap of society, just a couple layers from licking the dirt they stood on, weren't above casting belittling glances and muttering crude words the Keehl's way as they passed them in the hallways or spotted them on the streets.

His father never took criticism well. One of his many, many flaws. He'd invariably do something foolish, such as connecting his fist with one of the other tenant's face. And they'd be kicked out of their home within the next week and end up living in the cramped quarters of their banged up car, give or take a lawsuit. His mother would suggest that they move on to a new city; one that had yet to be subject to Hurricane Keehl…a fresh start she would call it, but it would always end up the same or worse. How is it a fresh start when everything remains as fucked up as it always was?

When he got old enough, he tried to voice his opinions. He wanted something to be consistent in his life. To be able to Control something somehow. The day he learned to talk back was the same day that he felt the sting of recoil for the first time. His father didn't take criticism well, as he'd already said. And criticism from his own son? It was like Mihael had committed blasphemy.

He was left to lick his wounds that night. The ones that now scarred his pride and his legs, where a full bottle of alcohol had collided with bare skin. Thankfully it didn't break. The bottle or his leg. Not that Mihael would have minded the pain. It was the smell that would have killed him. Personal experience had taught him to hate alcohol with a fiery passion. Screw Doctor Frankenstein's lightning; you could create a monster much easier with a bottle of vodka and a couple shot glasses. And what's more out of a man who otherwise might be very normal and good…not that his father was, but some of his old man's friends were decent people when not stumbling around in a drunken haze.

But almost more painful than the bruises were the injuries to his pride. The words "stupid," "worthless," "child," "girly," and "runt" along with various synonyms were thrown around liberally, slathered with a coating of single-minded cusses and a terrifying level of fury and hate had Mihael's heart thudding in his ears long after the last echo had faded into nothingness. After that day, the restraint his father had managed to keep for so long had evaporated. Mihael couldn't go more than a day without hearing a harsh word from him and bruises began to speckle his arms midst his freckles. Forcing him to dress himself in ways that covered the yellow-green-blue-black-purple that marked his abuse. Honestly, he was too ashamed to admit to anyone just how afraid of his father he was. He hid it well beneath a snarky tongue, but he took to keeping a weapon on him after those first few weeks. Hoping to discourage his abuser. But Mihael couldn't always predict when he would strike.

He didn't cry though. He was far too old to cry. At six-and-a-half years old, he was grown up. At least, more grown up than both of his licensed parental units. From that day forth, the competitive side of him had been honed to a deadly edge. Deadly in the sense that he could…no he would, do anything to be the best. Including play dirty. Cheating, clawing, biting his way to the top. Academics, sports…even to some extent friendships and other relationships. He had to be the best at all of it and he exploded when he couldn't get his way, often leaving blood and tears in his wake. These were all things he had Control over, unlike the rest of his life. Or his world.

It's a frightening thing to see a child that bitter and that cold. The usual pleasures of boyhood no longer interested him so much…his idea of a good time was using his cunning to achieve his lofty goals and elaborate schemes. He had deception down to an art form, and his silver, forked tongue could weave fibs so elaborate no one would dare question him. Especially since every one of his opponents misjudged the level of Mihael's cunning. Who would expect a kid capable of manipulation like that?

To tell the truth, he became a bit of a bully after that day as well. Mostly it was passive aggressive, not openly hostile. Little power plays he'd make on the other kids, forcing them to follow his whim…taking away their Control for his own. He ruled the roost and made others do his bidding for him. The teachers never knew why their classes seemed so orderly nor did they realize that they were no longer in charge of their classes. They were far too oblivious to expect it, but Mihael was secretly ruling them all with fear. The only reason the teachers were still given the illusion of Control was that Mihael wanted to learn more. If he had wanted to, he could have crushed them all into an early retirement. He forced the class into order when he wanted something. You might ask how a child can hold that much power…how he can become king of the classroom. The answer lay in what Mihael was best at: reading people. He had this magical intuition and understanding of others. Of what they wanted to hear and what their fears were. The other kids were so scared of him because he knew how best to slip under their skin and psychologically destroy them. He'd seen an expert at work for years and you don't go through something like that without picking up a few tricks. Well, Mihael doesn't anyways.

Now he was the one who decided whether or not someone was going to have a good day. The same way his father had dictated how his own days had been going over the last half a decade. That kind of power was like alcohol to him. It was intoxicating… impairing his judgment and he became as belligerent as any patron you could find at a bar. Taking away standards and mercy from his heart.

He came home one afternoon feeling invigorated, strong. Like he could take on Mount Olympus and win. And yet there she was, her face thick with make-up as she lounged across the sofa painting her nails. Not even glancing at her son, not acknowledging his presence. No "hi honey how was your day?" It was too much for her to take that kind of interest in her son. She'd much rather worry her nails to a pristine curve and pluck the latest miniscule hairs from her upper lip and fret over imaginary wrinkles gathering on her brow.

He realized then that she didn't know the first thing about him. She didn't know what his favorite color or his aspirations. She didn't even know how intelligent her son was nor how he liked his eggs in the morning. He wondered for a moment if she was just that forgetful but then came an epiphany: she didn't care. He was a novelty whenever she wanted to show him off for some reason, nothing more. He might as well have been one of those obnoxious little yippee little dogs…the ones she would give an arm and a leg to purchase. Only she cared more for those dogs than she did him.

It hurt. It really did. And that hurt had morphed into rage as she did finally order him to fix dinner and clean the bathroom, which SHE made dirty. Like he was her maid/cook/babysitter/caretaker. Mihael didn't doubt he'd be a chafer too if he was old enough to drive. If she could she would transform him into her personal servant, bound by his blood and never to be so much as thanked for his efforts. It was infuriating, how much she was expecting out of him. He understood she had given him life, but parents are supposed to care for their offspring not vice versa. At least not when they were in grade school. She was selfish and childish and a horrendous vapid creature who suffocated everything around her, like a weed. And she needed to be punished. And so he did. That was the day he shamelessly let his own mother felt the sting of his tongue.

He remembers the first time he made her cry. It wasn't as satisfying as he had thought it would be, to scream at her and insult her so harshly she bawled her fool head off, wailing out her pain as a distraught newborn might. He picked at her flaws and insecurities till she vanished into her room, crying her eyes dry till she passed out from exhaustion; her puffy face buried deeply into her ratty pillow.

Yet he wouldn't go so far as saying he felt bad for her. On the contrary, in his mind, she had this coming for years. She'd been pulling this shit on him too long…they both had. He ignored her tears…didn't comfort her or apologize but he didn't pursue or further egg her on either. He just went about his night as usual afterwards, unaffected by her caterwauls one room over.

But his actions didn't go unpunished. No, his mother didn't reprimand him nor did she do anything to herself. He was completely abashed when his father came storming into his room, his eyes ridged with bloody lines like they were cracking open. He kept expecting them to explode along with the throbbing vein on the side of the elder man's head. He probably could pressure wash an entire mansion with his blood were he to get so much as a paper cut.

He proceeded to chew Mihael out for the next half an hour for upsetting his mother. Mihael just rolled his eyes, opening and closing a pair of scissors resting on his lap. He knew the alcoholic yearned to beat Mihael into complacency and the scissors were somewhat of an insurance policy on his part. His silent "Don't fucking touch me" to his old man. The unspoken threat was impossible for even one so dense as him to misunderstand. And it seemed to frustrate him all the more.

He honestly had no idea why his father gave a flying fuck. She'd cried enough tears to sink the Titanic…most of which were entirely her husband's fault. And he never cared when he made her cry. At least, not that Mihael ever openly saw. So why did he care when Mihael made her cry? He hurt her just as much if not a thousand times more on a regular basis.

Mello still doesn't have an answer and it's been over decade. He begrudgingly had been forced to admit that perhaps in his own fucked-up way, his old man might have actually loved her. He certainly got jealous whenever he caught his mother cheating. One time, when she'd actually had the audacity to bring the other man home, he got so furious he actually nearly castrated the man in retaliation. Or he sure as hell tried anyways. And Valentine's day, at the very least, his father made a conscious effort to not drink the week before. With the money he saved he would take her out to a higher end restaurant. There were little things he did as well. Fixing her breakfast in bed when she was sick (which seemed to be his preferred state for her to be in perhaps because she was even more vulnerable than usual). Maybe it's a long shot, but it's possible he loved Mihael too. Not that Mello would ever give him that much credit.

Mihael does remember Christmas time how his father would break out an ax and jack a good old conifer from God-knows-where, stealing it back to their little hutch of an apartment. They were too poor to do it legally…get a tree that is. But his father always busted his butt at the risk of jail time (and he did get caught once too) just to bring Mihael a Christmas tree. Sure they didn't have many presents to sit beneath its boughs or many ordainments to decorate its branches, but it would sit in the Keehl's living room till either the branches were bare and the needles brown or they moved on to another city. They both loved the smell of fresh pine and he remembers how every year his father would hoist him up on his shoulders to place the old chipped blue star at the top. Till one year it broke during a move…Mihael was so upset but his father tried his damnedest to superglue it back together with limited success. Mostly he just ended up with a sticky ball bonded to his wrist that wouldn't come off for hours.

And Mihael remembered his eighth birthday… that broken smile of his that day they'd gone to the beach. It was a horrible beach to tell the truth. The putrid smell of rotting fish, sewage, and he-didn't-want-to-know-what-else still made him crinkle his nose. And the sand wasn't much better. Mucky and sticky, it was more mud than sand. Fetid mud that carried a distinct odor of bleh.

You can bet that Mihael didn't want to go swimming. Not in the least…it was a "father-son" outing that he'd practically been dragged onto by the collar of his bloody shirt. He'd stubbornly refused to go any closer to the shoreline than eight feet, convinced he would spout tentacles if he touched even the foam that lined the lapping waves. He nibbled absently on the chocolate bar he'd gotten as a bribe to go with his father peacefully as said alcoholic jumped playfully over the waves like an innocent little kid playing jump rope.

Mihael knew better. That man was many things, but an innocent little kid was not one of them as childish as his mindset could be. He didn't even glance his father's way really. Perhaps that was why he didn't see it coming until he'd been lobbed in the face with it…a sticky ball of mud that slapped into the side of his head. Splattering across the bridge of his nose and speckling his chocolate bar. He angrily ripped off the part that had made contact, mourning the loss of good sugar. He cradled it lovingly to his left peck for a moment, then his eyes angrily snapped toward his father.

He was smiling…grinning like a buffoon as he awaited Mihael's reaction. But it was a broken grin, but it was one of the few times he saw his father that happy. Tentative and almost painful, like he wasn't gazing into his father's face. But he rather he was looking at a reflection of his father in a splintered mirror.

Any other child might have enjoyed a coating of mud coupled with a playful romp with their father across a beach. Having a dirtball fight till your skin turned black from sludge. Laughing and bounding around like yearling foals out to play. These sorts of things are supposed to become treasured, precious memories. The ones you look back on and feel a pang of nostalgia for. But Mihael was pissed. The spoiling of good chocolate…and his shirt was now dirty...he'd have to wash his hair now damn it…and his father had the audacity to smile about it. Mihael exploded on spot.

He'd said some things. Some things he might have come to regret if allowed himself to think about it. But admitting to regret was admitting defeat. Admitting that he hadn't been in Control of himself that day as he screamed himself hoarse. That it had actually hurt to see the smile and laughter blown off his father's face. It was the first time he professed honest-to-God hate towards his father…toward anyone. The word hate should be considered a swear word in all honesty. Saying you hate someone is more hurtful than calling them even the foulest swear words. "Bitch…" "ass…" "fuck…" they were all upstaged by the H word. That caused the P word…pain. Another four-letter word…you know, just by saying that word…pain…you give off this tiny gasp. Announcing to the world directly what that word implies. Vulnerability…a plead for mercy…fear…sorrow… And pain is what he caused his father that day on the beach. Probably more pain than that time he'd been stabbed at the bar or when his father's family silently shunned him and his own family.

Mihael didn't stop and consider how it must have felt. He never considered what his father felt for him. He couldn't feel for someone like that. Couldn't empathize. He just stormed away…fuming. He angrily walked the four miles home that night, his posture rigid and his eyes a turbulent storm of absolute revulsion. He wasn't just angry. He was absolutely livid.

He'd been so certain of his own maturity and his parents' immaturity. But that day, Mihael had behaved like a kid. A spoiled, selfish kid with an ugly soul. The very thing he'd accused his father of being. He'd allowed himself to be cultured into a bitter child, cultivated into his old man in far too many ways than he cared to acknowledge. And he hated his old man that all the more. It was a concept he loathed above everything else. The idea that he could become That Man even in the darkest caricature of himself. Much less the very tangible transformation occurring. Perhaps if he had continued to live with his father the evolution would have been complete, but he didn't and it wouldn't. He would become a different variety of heel.

After that day his father grew even more distant and removed from his son. He still got angry with him, but it wasn't speckled with armistice anymore. Friendly moments between the two had shriveled to nonexistence and his mother, the irresponsible cunt, had been forced into the role of peacekeeper…something she wasn't very good at. They were at constant war with one another now. And the H word flew from his father's lips eventually too. Only it didn't cause Mihael much of the P word…or so he told himself. He refused to acknowledge the burning heat in his eyes or the slight sting cutting across his heart. And it worked. He succeeded in numbing himself to anything his father could say to him. Steeled himself away in an impenetrable fortress of lies, ire, and a certain callousness better fitting to a jaded old man than a preteen.

Their fights were the one constant in their house. In fact, the last words exchanged between the two men were acerbic, culminating into their worst fight in Mihael's opinion. Of course this might just be because it was their last fight and so it stood out more in his mind and seemed harsher. But then, Mihael remembers him flinch, as if stung, as Mihael let loose the cruelest thing he'd ever said to his father. With an icy absolute disdainful conviction, he told his father the world would be a better place if he would just die. From the moment it left his mouth, Mihael could almost visibly see something break inside the elder man. He left then without another word. Never again did the two speak. But Mihael didn't care about how he had just hurt his father.

He couldn't be moved into mourning even. Couldn't find it in himself to feel bad in the least a few nights when a couple officers came to their apartment with expressions ranging from stoic to grim. His mother answered the door and her makeup-blackened eyes scanned the men with trepidation. Mihael had been listening a room over, one eye peeking in to take a glimpse of the uniformed officers. Even then he had a mild fascination with the law. And he saw her sink to the ground, sobs shaking her body wildly. She wailed like dying dog, howling at the moon one final time.

The shrill tone had him covering his ears, but he made no move to comfort her. Not even when he caught some of the words the officers were speaking to her.

Husband. Impaired. Accident. Hospital. Passed away.

These were a few words he picked out of their murmurs, along with sugar-coated condolences…only half-heart-felt. One awkwardly set a hand on her shoulder, patting it as if she were a dog and not a human…a woman…a crying woman.

It wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Knowing his father…knowing his beverage of choice and his blotchy record with DWIs.

He didn't grieve. Didn't cry. But he did yell. One night, he startled awake and found himself just screaming his heart out. Like all the pain and anger he had ever felt toward the man who had given him half of himself…the man who raised him and dragged him all over the countryside…the man who slugged both of his eyes black on more than one occasion…the man who had sympathetically brought him a glass of ginger ale when he got the stomach flu…all of those raging emotions came out in a single angry roar. But Mihael didn't feel bad. No, it was just him releasing the remaining emotion he'd left bottled within for so long.

Should he have? Perhaps. But he honestly didn't spare much thought to the death of an asshole. He was just another bad guy put down by his own vices. He felt far worse for the poor shmucks that he'd dragged along with him to his grave. Yep, it wasn't bad enough that the horrible example of humanity had trashed a perfectly good car…he'd slammed into another car and killed two people. A mother and a father and put their two sons...one around Mello's age…in the hospital.

Yet all his mother cared about was his father's death. He was forced into a stuffy monkey suit for the funeral. Only a handful of people attended Andre Keehl's service. No one was smiling but there weren't any tears save Mihael's mother. The pastor couldn't go more than two words without being interrupted by a reverberating sob, much to Mihael's chagrin. He shuffled his feet and scooted over to the edge of the pew, hoping he could make it seem like he wasn't with her; however foolish a notion this was given that most of the people in the church knew who he was. However this proved impossible as with her next stifling sob she nearly scraped Mihael off his feet in a bone-crushing hug. Her mascara and liner stained his suit and they wound up having to pay for the rental…something they damn well couldn't have afforded.

The whole affair was stuffy, uncomfortable, expensive and tedious…he never wanted to go to another funeral so long as he lived, he decided. When he died, he sure as Hell didn't want to create such a fuss. A couple quick words and a shallow hole would suit him nicely. Better yet, maybe he could be cremated, his ash scattered to the four winds. As much as he liked drama and glamour at times, there was nothing glamorous about the dead. He didn't need people to lament for him or bemoan about his good traits and make him sound like a goddamn angel. He cared much more about making something of himself in life than he did for people making him out to be something he's not. He'd rather them be perfectly honest at his funeral. Or better yet, he could not have one at all…

* * *

><p><strong>I was having problems splitting this chapter and the next one. So you'll find they flow into one another but the<strong>**n they'll do that until a few thousand pages after Wammy's. This was written as one big block up until the point where Mello's past starts to diverge.**

**I'll be posting the next chapter hopefully some time next week.**

**Next: Mihael's time with his parents comes to a final violent end. **

**I hope this chapter explains also why I decided against having my version of Mello be religious. Much of this is in tact from when I first started writing this and the way I was writing him...it was difficult to make him be a believer. He will eventually be coming to terms with religion.**

**Till next time,**

**~Crisi**


End file.
